


The Many Adventures of the Dread Pirate Roberts: Adventure Two: Swimming and Fighting

by Shawn Michel de Montaigne (ShawnMichel)



Category: Princess Bride (1987)
Genre: Family, Gen, Loyalty, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14561220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShawnMichel/pseuds/Shawn%20Michel%20de%20Montaigne
Summary: Having raided the impossible-to-raid Harshtree Prison and freed Fezzik, the intrepid pirates of the Revenge escape into the night, their legend even greater. Captain Montoya promised them that when Fezzik was safely aboard ship, that they all would learn to swim. It wasn't acceptable that half of them, including the captain himself, didn't know! They just need to escape the Florin navy, hot on their heels, and find a friendly, hidden cove somewhere so that the captain can begin lessons. Read on!





	1. Paisley

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Adventure One here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254603/chapters/7094981
> 
> I'll be posting these chapters every couple of months or so. I'll post them on my blog before I post them here, so if you're anxious to catch up, head to my blog!

**[Read Adventure One here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254603/chapters/7094981) **

 

~~*~~

 

**There are too many great moments to record here**. I want to, though. I want to share with the world all the little in-between moments, some just as glorious in their own way as the big ones. But I am left to offer only the moments where the _Revenge_ and her crew’s course was adjusted in a significant way and a new bearing was logged and pursued.

 

   We sailed that night out of Taurdust and into history. No one had _ever_ broken out of Harshtree. We not only broke out that hell-hole, but willingly broke _into_ it too.

 

   Word of our exploits got around quickly. The new Florin monarchy, in many ways just as corrupt and evil as the old one, posted fliers in every village: a hundred gold coins for any crewmember of the _Revenge_ , dead or alive, and a thousand for our captain: Inigo Montoya, the Dread Pirate Roberts. The poster featured his likeness, bandana wrapped around his head, his face clean-shaven, as he was the night we broke Fezzik out. At the bottom was a warning:

 

ANYONE CAUGHT HARBORING, AIDING, OR ABETTING THESE PIRATES WILL BE SUMMARILY HUNG IN THE FLORIN PUBLIC SQUARE.

 

   The _Revenge_ is the fastest ship on the Seven Seas, and we proved it the two days following. I was as impressed with the crew then as I was with their performance the night we broke Fezzik out. It was a very tense time.

 

   The Florin navy was sent to find us and take us “dead or alive,” so we sailed for Guilder at full speed. Florin frigates tried to catch us in the border waters between the two lands, but turned away when the Guilderians fired on them.

 

   The Guilderians, bless them, let us pass.

 

   We crossed into their waters, hugging their rugged coastline. We passed the Cliffs of Insanity and marveled that Fezzik had actually pulled himself, the princess, Vizzini, and the captain up them. Once back out in open ocean and no one on our tail, we allowed ourselves to relax a little. The captain had ordered the _Revenge_ to “warm turquoise waters,” and so after some deliberation I decided on Bavus-Naguty, a small, friendly kingdom on the southern coast of Portugal. The trip would take us twelve solid days of full sails.

 

   Speaking of Fezzik, we all chipped in to help him adapt to life on a pirate ship. With some work we fashioned for him an enormous and sturdy canvas bunk at the head of the crew quarters next to the stairs leading up to the topdeck. We fed him (which required several stops along the way to replenish our food stores) and brought him slowly back to health. As he came around, he, like his best friend, wanted to learn how to work a tall ship, so we showed him. It became clear immediately that the extra food he required was more than worth it, as he could do the work of fifteen men. He worked tirelessly and was always of good cheer, and the crew quickly took to him.

 

   Rye Morgny proved to be far less trouble than I thought he’d be. He had never been on a seagoing vessel before, and so, like the captain had, he initially suffered acute seasickness. Like the captain, yquaberry lozenges brought him around. He struggled to gain his sea legs, and he suffered from homesickness. I took a personal interest in him and got him working with the crew. Hard work, I learned long ago from personal experience, is a wonderful palliative for homesickness. And so I worked young Rye Morgny; I worked him very hard. Five days out we pulled into the port village of Achiad; it was there we paid the local courier a little extra to deliver mail back to Florin. Many of the crew, like Rye Morgny, had loved ones back home. I believe it did our youngest member of the _Revenge_ good to see that many if not most of them were homesick too, that they weren’t so hardened to pirating that their hearts didn’t ache from time to time as well.

 

   I helped him compose a letter to his father and two sisters (he only knew the very rudimentaries of writing), reminding him often that we were fugitives and that, in order to protect himself and them, he’d have to come up with a pseudonym or alias, and _not_ mention that he was now a crewmember of the _Revenge_. After some thought, we decided his alias should be “Toast,” as in rye toast, one of my favorite breads. “Toast” worried that it would only confuse his family; I told him that would be better than them suffering in one of Florin’s many torture chambers, including the Pit of Despair, which, I was certain, Dynatis Rugen had kept open. He agreed.

 

   Achiad is home to a clothier named Boris Couz, whom Captain Cummerbund, then only a First Mate, had freed from a slaver making its way back to Florin. (Truly, the Florin monarchy has always been vile.) Couz was a great talent, and had fashioned himself a name over the many years since. His shop, near the top of one of Achiad’s many rocky hills, was small and tucked away along a pleasant, winding, vine-covered walkway. With Crissah leading the way, we entered.

 

   It was lighted by several lamps and a smattering of candles. Boris Couz emerged from a back room, a great smile peeking from under his bushy brown moustache. He was at least seventy, but looked twenty years younger. He glanced around, puzzled, at the small crowd (there were seven of us, including the captain), then spied me. His smile exploded out of hiding.

 

   “Duncan Paloni!” he shouted. His Portugese accent, mixed with the flavors of at least four other nearby lands, was just manageable. He lumbered from behind the counter, throwing it open and wrapping his huge arms around me. His big barrel chest pressed into mine. “I was just thinking of you not two days ago! What has brought you to Achiad?” He pulled back and looked at the crew. “ _Revenge_? All of you?”

 

   Captain Montoya came forward and extended his hand. “Inigo Montoya,” he said.

 

   “The captain,” I hastily added.

 

   Boris Couz stepped away from me and took the captain’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Well now!” he said. “This is a first! Never has my humble shop been graced with the presence of the captain of the greatest ship on the high seas! My!” With the captain’s hand still in his grip, he looked him over. “Though I must say, sir, that you don’t look the part! No disrespect intended, please!”

 

   “Which is why we’re here,” said Crissah, who came to the fore. The captain didn’t look offended, but was smiling slightly, as though he had already decided that he liked Boris Couz. Crissah extended her hand, and Boris released the captain’s to raise hers to his lips.

 

   “I do love moving forward with the times,” he sighed. He released her hand and said, “Women— _pirates?_ ” He glanced at Hindy, who had come along, and Olive too. “Can it be true?”

 

   “It can,” said Hindy. Boris came around to her, kissed her hand, and then did the same to Olive’s. Rounding out the group was Rye and Dauchkin, whom Boris spied after reluctantly looking away from the women.

 

   “Dauchkin!” he yelled, and barreled into him. The men shook hands and then hugged.

 

   “How is it you are still alive and kicking?” cried Boris.

 

   “I’m jus’ a tough ol’ seabird,” said Dauchkin with a broad toothy grin.

 

   “Captain,” said Boris, “I would like to tell you that this man saved my life long ago, and that if he represents the general character of your crew, then, sir, you have a grand crew indeed!”

 

   The captain smiled and nodded. “He has been most helpful showing me the workings of the _Revenge_ , sir.”

 

   “No, no—just Boris, please, Captain. Just Boris.” He studied the captain. “You are new to the job?”

 

   “I am.”

 

   “That explains it then,” said Boris, looking him over once again with a critical eye. “Do forgive me, Captain, but you are dressed as a peasant, and that will simply not do!”

 

   Captain Montoya looked down on his person. “These clothes are all I own.”

 

   “Until now,” said Hindy. “The crew believes the captain of the _Revenge_ should look the part. Our recent good fortune brought us to think of you. And since we were sailing through …”

 

   “Oh, this sounds _quite_ exciting!” beamed Boris, twisting his moustache. “May I be so bold as to presume your good fortune is about to become mine as well?”

 

   “Indeed, yes,” said Captain Montoya.

 

   “ _All_ of you?” he said very hopefully.

 

   “The entire crew,” I said. “They’ll all be stopping in as their duties allow.” I stepped back and clapped a hand on young Rye Morgny’s shoulder. “This rookie needs your particular attention.”

 

   Boris brought his gaze to him and approached. “Rookie, eh?” he asked while sizing Rye up.

 

   “Very,” said everyone.

 

   “Everyone starts somewhere!” declared Boris as he took Rye Morgny’s hand, which was hanging limply by his side. The boy seemed utterly out of his element; still, he managed a strained smile.

 

   “You are among friends,” Boris assured him. “The _Revenge_ has given the world the finest souls I have ever had the privilege of knowing. No one will teach you how to be a man better than these. Come! Come! It appears that I have much work ahead of me today! Joy O joy! Come! Come!”

 

 

 

It was quite a sight seeing the captain a week later. As had become his custom, he was awake well before the day crew, and greeted us as we made our way on deck.

 

   He looked … well, picture a Spanish conquistador who had thrown out the king’s colors and chosen the life of a proud scalawag. A magnificent rogue. A dashing rascal.

 

   He wore burgundy trimmed in black and dark pants tucked into new, shiny boots. The ensemble came with a suede-leather hat with feather and a short gold-lined cape, but those were nowhere to be found. In all respects, he looked quite captainly—and handsome. His moustache, which was still growing back, reminded me of our first adventure together, one that had already made his legendary name even more so. He looked at us as we saluted and said, “Pirates. _Not_ peasants. Those of you with new wardrobes look splendid this morning.”

 

   “As do you, Captain,” said Emeri admiringly.

 

   The women were a sight. Boris had outfitted them beautifully. Instead of trying to make them look like men, he kept the feminine in the details while conveying both a dangerous femme fatale look with one that let everyone know that these women were the equals of everyone around them. Our new duds were designed with work in mind (sailing a tall ship is work—hard work); we paid for multiple outfits for multiple occasions, from scrubbing the deck to crashing a royal ball. Boris hired extra help in the nine days it took him to outfit us; and when we sailed out of Achiad, he was a much wealthier man.

 

   “It cannot be years again,” he sighed as we parted. “Please tell me it won’t be years!”

 

   The captain took his big hand in both of his. “By my word, it won’t be.”

 

   It was still at least a week yet to Bavus-Naguty. We had calm seas and a steady breeze, and weren’t harassed by the various navies of the various kingdoms we sailed by, who saw our colors and largely left us alone.

 

   On the second morning out, anchored over a shallow reef, Captain Montoya greeted us in the mess and said, “Good morning. I have some news for all of you.”

 

   He reached into a big box he’d brought in with him and opened it and pulled out and dumped on the table—

 

   —paisley … _underwear?_

 

   We stared. No one spoke.

 

   “Boris made them for us,” he said.

 

   Still, no one spoke.

 

   He glanced around at us, irritated.

 

   Everyone looked round to me, so I spoke. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “What … _are_ these?”

 

   The crews’ gaze shifted back to him. The girls in particular looked shocked. Their gazes were of concern: Had the captain just revealed a kink in his personality that should best be left to himself?

 

   He gazed around at everybody. “These are swimming suits! Swimwear! Boris made them, a pair for each of us! He used the measurements he’d gotten from us and fashioned these by my request! They’re made of a special material that stays lightweight in water and dries very quickly under the sun! I paid for them myself.”

 

   Emeri reached for a pair of trunks and lifted them, gawking. They were obviously fashioned for a man, with a button fly.

 

   “Those are mine,” said the captain with a completely straight face. He grabbed them from her and held them up. “They hold to your body,” he explained. “The waist stretches but does not lose its form! Look!” He pulled the waist wide and released it. The suit snapped instantly back into shape.

 

   We were speechless.

 

   Emeri reached for another pair of bottoms. These weren’t squarish, as the captain’s were, but cut with a higher, curvier leg.

 

   “Those are probably yours,” said the captain. “Everyone’s names are stitched in small print to the backs of the bottoms, or to the brassieres. Go on, check!”

 

   This she did.

 

   “Are they?” he asked. “Are those yours?”

 

   She nodded vacantly. She lifted another pair, these big enough to double as a circus tent. Fezzik’s.

 

   The giant stared. He was standing in the back. He gave a chuckle, one I could feel in the wood of the kitchen table. He didn’t appear scandalized, as we all did, but deeply amused. He grinned at the captain as though knowing that he might go off the rails every now and again, as he appeared to be doing now.

 

   (Boris made most of his money outfitting Fezzik, it must be said here.)

 

   I think Captain Montoya finally caught up to the general mood of embarrassed shock that held everyone but Fezzik’s tongue, because he slammed his fist down on the table, snapping us all out of it.

 

   “Get over yourselves!” he yelled. “I told everybody that we’re going to learn to swim, and by the farts of Poseidon, that’s exactly what we’re going to do! No seagoing vessel should have a crew the half of which would drown if thrown overboard! We’re going to learn to swim, and that’s the end of it!”

 

   Hindy held up a hand. “Sir?”

 

   He brought his determined gaze to her.

 

   “Will you try your suit on so we can see what it looks like?”

 

   It was obvious that she was trying to contain her laughter.

 

   He caught on right away, and I regretted that she spoke at all, because he gave her an evil grin with a wink. “I would love to. That’s what we are all going to do right now: we will all try on our swimwear and show ourselves on the deck, under the sight of God Himself. All of us. Together. If you want to laugh or be embarrassed, you can do it in the presence of Him and your crewmates! Now get your swimwear and change and go to the deck. You have ten minutes! Anyone not showing themselves in that time will call Achiad their new port o’ call! I will turn about and dump you there!”

 

   We all looked at each other, and then, with his help, silently rifled through the pile of paisley material to find our swimsuits. Soon the crew mess was empty save for, surely, the thick air of shock which must have lingered behind.

 

 

 

What can I say about the hour that followed? Stripped of our clothes and wearing these tight-fitting swimming suits (of which, thankfully, came in varying colors), we tip-toed onto the deck, arms wrapped around ourselves, where the captain, in his swimming suit, boldly waited. Soon the entire crew was standing there and doing our best not to look at each other (and failing miserably), as though to protect ourselves from the dark clouds of embarrassment threatening to unleash themselves on our heads.

 

   The captain stood without shame. He was trimly built, with a strong hairy chest and muscular legs.

 

   The girls, I must admit, looked, well … quite good. Their suits, comprised of a brassiere and bottoms, covered significantly less than ladies’ undergarments of the time, and the male crew had a difficult time not ogling them. The girls noticed. Hindy waved a warning finger and said, “Look, boys, but if you touch you’ll lose the offending hand.” The other girls nodded angrily in agreement.

 

   To their credit, the male crew kept any crude comments they might’ve been tempted to make to themselves.

 

   Fezzik. How can I describe what he looked like? A mountain of flesh covered partially in paisley? The great hair of his chest poofed out like Harshtree Forest. Still, embarrassment didn’t claim him, not even now. He looked around at everyone and nodded in approval and then moved behind the girls, who crowded protectively into his shadow. He gave the rest of us men significant glances that told us he’d make us part of the woodwork if we reached even a finger for them.

 

   Dauchkin was the last to get to deck. He clearly seemed the most embarrassed of us all. Crissah went to him and took his arm and led him to the group, saying, “Now here is the finest of you lot!”

 

   He had a bit of a poochy tummy, but his arms and chest were still strong and shaped like old granite, his legs too.

 

   Captain Montoya approached him. “Do you know how to swim, Dauchkin?”

 

   The old dog shook his head.

 

   “If you fall overboard, you will die,” said the captain very gravely. “You’ll panic and drown before we can get anything out to you or turn the _Revenge_ about.” He came in closer to him. “And I could not live with myself if that happened. You are loyal and hardworking and irreplaceable. As are you all!” he yelled, looking around at us one by one. “I will not lose _any_ of you to the sea!

 

   “So you’re embarrassed being dressed so scantily. What is embarrassment next to death by drowning? Deal with it, say I! Now go and change back into your clothes and let’s set sail!”

 

   We didn’t cheer; instead we meekly scampered off deck, somewhat ashamed at ourselves for being so precious and modest.

 

 

 

I found myself over the week following unable to get Crissah’s swimwear-clad body out of my head. I mean, she looked very alluring dressed as a “carrot” as we made our assault on Harshtree; and I did avail myself of the occasional surreptitious glance, that’s true enough. But now I felt somewhat consumed by her body … the way her bottoms complimented her hips and backside; her long legs and youthful curves and flawless cream-colored skin.

 

   I wasn’t the only man so affected. I noticed a lot of distracted blinking from all the male crew as we sailed into warmer seas. I kept a tight lid on it; so did Marcell. We made it clear that friendly banter was tolerated, but crude comments were not. To let them know we were serious we worked several offenders to the bone, giving them fifteen-hour shifts. The comments ceased.

 

   The one I was most worried about, though, was Rye. He’d seen Hindy, Crissah, Olive, Emeri, Stacie, and Lilianna in what amounted to less than their underwear, and since that day stumbled around in a lust-filled teenaged haze. I thought he might tip himself overboard on several occasions as he watched one of them pass, and that wouldn’t do at all, so I jumped loudly on his case and put him to work with the real offenders, telling him that if he couldn’t keep the blood in his big head, that his small one would get him and all of us killed. He worked hard, but the vacant, mouth-hanging-open countenance hung on. After another day it started fading a little, which was good enough for me—for the time being.

 

   Eight days later we crossed into Bavus-Naguty waters. A pleasant breeze urged us on. We sailed close to shore, looking for a quiet place to drop anchor. We found it two days later: a small, hidden cove surrounded by high white chalk cliffs. We sailed into it and celebrated, for we were now floating peacefully on warm turquoise waters. We set up camp on shore, and that’s when, after several raucous rounds of rum, the captain proclaimed that swimming lessons would commence the following morning.

 

**~~*~~**


	2. Swimming Lessons & Swordplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The close-knit, intrepid crew of the Revenge, on orders from the captain, learn how to swim. While they are at it, they pick up a few other valuable vocational skills as well. Read on!

**This was the second time I had been here, as it turned out**. The first wasn’t with the _Revenge_ , oddly enough, but the British Royal Navy. I wasn’t even Rye Morgny’s age, just a deckhand. We were looking for a fight, as I recall. Some Bavus-Naguty frigate had violated Mother England’s waters; we, behaving like the limey bullies we were, were doing little more than violating theirs while hunting about for someone to fire on. But no one showed up to give us a proper row, so we discovered this cove and dropped anchor and took several days’ R&R.

 

   Bullies. Great Britain wasn’t much different than Florin, its southeast neighbor, in that regard. Both countries were always seeking advantage, always spoiling for a brawl, always wanting to stoke the fires of war. The prevailing philosophy came down to this: _A people at peace is a dangerous thing_.

 

   When I was seventeen I packed up and crossed the Channel to Florin, where I shortly learned that nothing changed but my geography. Not many years after that I was recruited to the crew of the _Revenge_.

 

   It isn’t a matter of simply signing up. With all due respect to Rye Morgny, the _Revenge_ doesn’t take just anybody. To be a member of this intrepid crew, another serving aboard it has to know the potential recruit personally. When and if the time comes, someone actively serving on the _Revenge_ seeks the candidate out.

 

   In my case the serving member was a former lieutenant of the very ship I had served on in the Navy. He had been framed by the first mate (a truly despicable fellow) for debauchery and left to rot in a British dungeon, which, with his cellmate, they managed to escape, but not without his friend being cut down. On his own, he fled to Florin. The _Revenge_ found him not long after he arrived.

 

   I couldn’t believe the _Revenge_ wanted me. I hadn’t proved myself in battle or, as the lieutenant, whose name was Ryley, with cunning and daring by escaping a horrible dungeon. I told him. His response stuck with me ever since.

 

   “Perhaps not. But I know men, what’s in them, and I always thought you were a cut above. You were destined for far greater things than scrubbing quarterdecks!”

 

   I met Captain Cummerbund, who was just months from retiring. He interviewed me. He didn’t seem to like me (at all), and I left very disappointed. Three days later Ryley found me slouched over my mead in a pub. “You’ve got the job,” he told me. “Report the day after tomorrow. You’ll be my Ship’s Master First Mate.”

 

   I was floored.

 

 

 

It was with that grand memory that I came up behind Rye Morgny, who was working with Dauchkin to stoke one of four large bonfires we had built, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

 

   He turned to face me. “Yes, sir?”

 

   “Know how to swim?” I asked.

 

   He shook his head. “You, sir?”

 

   I too shook my head. “Believe it or not, most sailors don’t have a clue how to swim. We’re quite lucky: half of the _Revenge_ knows. That’s much better than most crews, on average.”

 

   “Seems silly, I suppose,” he mused. “I mean, we live on the water. I guess it’d it be like taking a carriage over land but not knowing how to walk.”

 

   I chuckled. “Quite.”

 

   The captain hopped off the long boat and helped pull it in. He glanced at us, then around at the cove. This truly was a peaceful and private little bit of heaven.

 

   We waited for him to speak, which was obvious he was about to do.

 

   “Those of you who know how to swim, please come forward.”

 

   Twelve crewmembers came forward, including all the women and six others, including Fezzik.

 

   He glanced at the rest of us. “We shall entrust your lives to the care of these dozen. I too don’t know how to swim. That is going to end during this stay. I shall assign one swimmer with one non-swimmer. Rank does not matter while you are under their tutelage! While in their care, you will treat them as your superiors. I willingly include myself in that order. Does everyone understand?”

 

   We nodded.

 

   He turned to Marcell, who had waded ashore and stood now next to him. The bosun had the captain’s fine feather hat in his grip, which he handed to him.

 

   “Nonswimmers shall come forward,” Captain Montoya announced, “and take a single name from the hat. That person shall be your aquatics instructor. I shall begin!”

 

   Holding up the hat, he reached inside and pulled out a small rectangular bit of paper and read it and laughed. “I shall be entrusting my life to … Ruhdsami!”

 

   Kay Ruhdsami was our sole Indian crewmember. He was twenty-eight years old and a first-class Master Gunner and Tactician, having defected from the Indian Navy about the same time I fled England. He was dark and quiet, and a very good, steady sort. He smiled a lot but kept to himself. He gazed at the captain and bowed. “I shall not let you down, sir.”

 

   One by one we came up to the hat and drew a name. Fezzik, who, unbelievably, knew how to swim (“I can doggy paddle”), was paired with young Rye; Dauchkin got Stacie (which elicited groans of envy from the men); Marcell drew Hindy (more groans; in fact every man who got paired with a woman received them, along with smirking stares and offers of piles of gold if they traded); and I? I smirked the widest, because I was the last to draw and so already knew who I’d be paired with: Crissah.

 

   Indeed there was a God, thought I, most pleased. I sidled smugly up to her side. She gave me a wink as the captain said, “No trades! And no one in the water who has drink in them! Safety always comes first! Understood?”

 

   “Yes, sir!” we answered in unison.

 

   “We shall begin tomorrow after breakfast. In the meantime, let us relax and enjoy this marvelous place, shall we?”

 

   We yelled our delight and went back to the fires and the rum in canteens waiting around them.

 

 

 

The study was large, circular, and glowing softly orange-yellow by the quietly crackling fire in the large hearth to the left. A bearskin rug lay in the room’s center; on the other side, tall bookshelves and a ladder to get up to the highest tomes waited in homey shadow. Between them and the hearth was a door that led to his bedchamber.

 

   Dynatis Rugen wasn’t looking that way, however. He was staring impatiently towards the right and the corridor that led back into the heart of the castle.

 

   This study once belonged to Prince Humperdinck. It was where he used to hatch his plots and schemes. He and Count Rugen used to sit in here for many idle hours sipping brandy and enjoying their well-deserved privilege and position. Many an evening they’d order the palace guard to grab a villager and haul him or her to the Pit of Despair where, snifters in hand, they’d go so they could make the dirty commoner suffer. They’d have the corpse fed to the palace’s guard dogs.

 

   It was an excellent way to maintain fear, to make sure the rabble knew their place, and to educate themselves on the limits of human suffering, which was always helpful.

 

   Dynatis frowned. The new king didn’t care for the Pit of Despair, only that “the good work” in it continued. The new king was concerned only about tribute. He lived cloistered in his opulent apartment, making only occasional appearances in the palace, and even rarer appearances before his subjects. He was the nephew of the old king, Humperdinck’s first cousin, and lived, in his words, “only to rule.”

 

   That included friendship. The new king—King Ecclesius, as he had been titled—had no use for it, nor for this study, which he simply gave to Dynatis with a dismissive wave. “It’s yours to use as you please. Do your job and you may keep it. Don’t do your job and I’ll give it to someone else. Now leave me!”

 

   The king had been very disappointed to hear that the Dread Pirate Roberts had successfully assaulted Harshtree Prison and had freed one of its inmates. To make his displeasure real he had Dynatis strapped to the Machine and given a “light” disciplining. The crank was lifted to one-half for ten minutes.

 

   The water had flowed and the wheel turned and Dynatis Rugen wished for death. The guards unstrapped him and carried him back to the castle and put him gently to bed, where he stayed for three days, recovering.

 

   He went back to work with twice the desire as before to exact revenge upon that pirate scow and its Spaniard captain.

 

   He sighed and glared at the corridor.

 

   “GUARD!”

 

   He heard the guard at the end of the corridor come to attention and hurry to the entrance, where he stopped and saluted stiffly.

 

   “Where _are_ they?”

 

   “Forgive me, My Lord. The carriage must be …”

 

   “Must be what?”

 

   “My Lord, it is raining. Perhaps the carriage got stuck.”

 

   “That’s all you’ve got—excuses? Get out!”

 

   The guard saluted quickly. “My Lord.” He turned and hurried back down the corridor.

 

   That damn Spaniard had run his father through and kidnapped the princess. He had humiliated King Humperdinck, who was shortly afterward exiled to France, then thrown out and captured back here in Florin, where he died in Harshtree. The coup spawned talk of revolution. The peasants saw that tiniest flicker of hope and started talking, started acting like they had rights.

 

   The new king was crowned and the rebellion quashed. Dynatis had been selected to follow in his father’s footsteps. The king’s first order: “Crush the citizenry.”

 

   Tirelessly now for over a year, that is exactly what he had done.

 

   But he deserved a little more of the taste of the good life his father had enjoyed! If it couldn’t be the king, then he knew who his second choice would be.

 

   _If only he’d bloody get here!_

 

   The door swung open that instant, as if fearful of his slipping temper. Multiple footsteps hurried down the hall.

 

   Guards appeared suddenly, one to each side of a very small bald man, who shook the weather off and gave him an evil, lopsided smile.

 

   “My dear Count,” he simpered, inclining his head.

 

   “Bacco!” cried Dynatis. “It is wonderful to see you, my old friend! Come, take off your wet things and have a seat!”

 

   “Indeed I shall,” said Bacco. “I believe we have much to discuss—say, a nasty Spaniard with delusions of greatness?”

 

   “Yes, yes!” said Dynatis.

 

   Just the mention of the captain of the _Revenge_ was enough to cause him to grip the quill in his hand until his knuckles were white. “Let us talk about what we can do about that Spaniard and his quaint little boat, shall we? Guards! Get this man some warm brandy at once!”

 

 

 

These weeks had passed almost without notice. That’s the odd thing about living happily. Time loses all its earth-bound density and floats away. It seemed only yesterday we were drawing names out of a hat to determine partners for swimming practice.

 

   I found myself gazing at the calendar in the captain’s quarters and shaking my head in contented disbelief. That was almost four months ago!

 

   We all learned how to swim. We learned the Australian crawl (Hindy) and the backstroke (also Hindy), and the breaststroke (Emeri). We learned how to hold our breath and how to sidestroke (Ruhdsami). We learned how to “doggy paddle” and float comfortably on our backs (Fezzik, of course). Some of us got so water-proficient that we could dive into the deepest part of the cove for clams and mussels and other shellfish, which we brought up and devoured with great relish. We became much better fishermen-and –women. The water was warm, turquoise blue, and clear as glass.

 

   Speaking of glass: Rye Morgny surprised us by informing us his father had taught him glass- and metalwork. To that end he put together a rudimentary pair of goggles we could use underwater. The first pairs fell apart; but continued improvements to the design finally yielded a fairly efficient, leak-proof, and safe pair. Eventually he made two more from spare portals found in the bowels of the ship.

 

   We took the time to clean the _Revenge_ of barnacles now that we all could do it. It was exhausting and time-consuming work, but rewarding. We effected much-needed repairs to her and today gleamed like brand new.

 

   Our swimming suits were durable and comfortable. We became used to seeing one another traipse about in what amounted to paisley underwear.

 

   The captain promised that we were all going to learn not just how to swim, but how to fight as well.

 

   We were pirates. Fighting was second nature to us. With the exception of Rye (initially, at least), we were all good in a scrape. But that’s not what the captain was talking about. He wanted us to learn some of his godlike skills.

 

   To that end he put us through our paces, teaching us as his father taught him and then as he taught himself after his father was murdered. The lessons of his decades of devoted study he gave to us without hesitation. It was a gift without price and one we accepted it with great thanks. He didn’t want us to be great fighters, he told us. He wanted us to be great _peacemakers_. If a fight started, he wanted it to be over within moments and with us as the victors. That’s what he meant by “peacemakers.” It was _our_ peace he didn’t want disturbed. This we all agreed to heartily.

 

   When we weren’t in the water we practiced swordplay in the large training circle in the center of the camp. We gave up the rum and the late boisterous nights. The day’s activities were so strenuous that none of us had any desire to make merry after the sun went down. One of us would tell the rest a story as dinner digested and drink becalmed us. They were always stories of grand adventures and daring deeds, and we’d settle in and listened raptly. Marcell and Dauchkin were natural storytellers; so were Liliana and the captain. Like children, many of us drifted off as we listened. It was a rare thing for any of us to be awake after ten. The night’s fires would die down as we slept around them. The stars above twinkled in friendship.

 

   Always the captain would wake before all of us. Many times he’d be busy cooking breakfast—a captain cooking breakfast! We lived off the bounty of the sea and the surrounding land. Just a bit inland was a small farm. The farmer, a genial chap named Kelale, learned of our presence (he saw the smoke from our bonfires) and gave us a whole side of beef, for which we paid handsomely. We dined at his home several times and helped out around the farm when we could. We feasted on sweet corn and huge, juicy oranges and paid him to restock our ship’s stores with wheat, dried beans, and flour.

 

   Bavus-Naguty’s countryside was beautifully green and hilly. A village named Noush was fifteen miles inland; we took several treks there, where a metalworker named Lagesius sharpened our swords and outfitted us with new ones, including Rye, whose skills as a swordsman had improved beyond all measure. He was swift, cunning, and inventive with a cutlass, so much so that the captain noticed and complimented his improvement. The pride in Rye’s eyes was something to see. Handing his new blade to him, I could only think about how he’d gone from a liability to an almost certain asset. He’d already tasted battle; it was only a matter for him now to become accustomed to it.

 

   I left the captain’s quarters, closing the door behind me, and made my way upstairs to the topdeck. There was no one else onboard besides me. The _Revenge_ sat light and happy in calm cove waters that only this morning had dolphins swimming in them.

 

   I went to the port railing and gazed overboard. I could hear people laughing next to the ship.

 

   Fezzik was floating on his back. Sitting on top of him was Stacie, Liliana, and Rye. They were splashing each other. Fezzik was so large and strong that he didn’t seem to struggle with their weight or motions.

 

   “Duncan!” he shouted, smiling. “Come in! There’s room for one more!” His massive right shoulder lifted and dropped a couple times.

 

   His passengers glanced up at me. “Yeah, come in!” shouted Stacie. She splashed water that hit the side of the ship but didn’t quite make it up to me.

 

   Just then we heard a cry from shore. It was Crissah. She was motioning frantically for us to go to her.

 

   The captain stood behind her, as did Marcell and … Kelale? The farmer? All were motioning as well.

 

   Other crewmembers were dropping what they were doing and hurrying toward them.

 

   I mounted the rail and dove in and began swimming. Fezzik’s passengers had abandoned ship and were swimming too. Fezzik followed. He wasn’t speedy, but he’d eventually get there.

 

   We gained the warm white sand minutes later. The entire crew was in animated conversation with the captain and Kelale. Fezzik was still a few minutes out at his current speed.

 

   “What’s going on?” I asked.

 

   Crissah was crying. I went to her. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

 

   She wouldn’t answer me.

 

   When Fezzik finally lumbered ashore and joined us, the captain, glancing at Kelale, said, “Go on. Tell them.”

 

   “I went to Noush for supplies,” said the farmer. He glanced ominously at Rye. “There was a messenger there … all the way from Florin. He was sent to deliver notices to all coastal villages as far south as Morocco if need be. He was sent by the king’s henchman and has been traveling for two months. I told him he could stop looking, that I knew where the _Revenge_ was and would deliver his message.”

 

   The henchman—the vile Dynatis Rugen.

 

   Kelale held up. It was clear it was bad news. Crissah, who didn’t cry, was proof enough.

 

   “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, young man,” he gazed at Rye. “But the henchman … he learned who your family was and took your father and sister prisoner. He learned who this young woman’s parents were—” he motioned sadly at Crissah—“and took them too. If the _Revenge_ does not return to Florin by summer’s close to face charges of piracy, treason, assault of the kingdom’s prison guards, and kidnapping, the hostages will be put to slow death in the Pit of Despair. I’m so sorry.”

 

~~*~~


	3. The Birth of the Bandileros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great captain--and a great crew--work well together, be it sea ... or land. They are a family. Read on about how the pirate crew of the high-seas Revenge became the land-roaming Bandileros!

**The crew, of course, along with I, were stunned**. It didn’t last more than a few seconds. We were ready to sail back to Florin at once and rescue Crissah’s parents, as well as Rye’s father and sister. Marcell was already barking orders to break camp and ready the longboats.

 

   “Wait ... wait!” yelled Captain Montoya. _“Wait!”_

 

   We quietened. The entire crew had gathered by this point. The captain stood in the center with Crissah, Rye, and Kelale. Crissah, crying, was being consoled by Hindy and Liliana. The captain had his arm around Rye’s shoulder and was gazing around. When he was satisfied with the silence, he gazed at me.

 

   “How long back to Florin at full sails?”

 

   I shook my head. “Good weather? Two weeks? Two and a half?”

 

   “That would give us more than enough time to rescue them,” he said. “But something is telling me we should think this through.”

 

   “It won’t be that fast,” declared Stacie and Ruhdsami together. “The Florin navy will be looking for us,” continued Ruhdsami. “We won’t get within a hundred miles of any Florin port. That’s probably their real intent—to sink us before we even get within sight of land.”

 

   “Agreed,” said Marcell. The crew began murmuring amongst themselves.

 

   “That’s what I’m thinking,” said the captain.

 

   He gazed at Kelale. “How long over land, do you guess, my good man?”

 

   “To Florin?”

 

   “By horse,” said Captain Montoya.

 

   The crew gasped.

 

   “ _All_ of you?” laughed Kelale disbelievingly.

 

   “This is my crew’s fight. Two of our crew are being threatened. That means _all_ of us are being threatened!”

 

   The crew shouted agreement.

 

   Kelale shook his head thoughtfully. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t even know how many kingdoms are between ours and Florin!”

 

   “Just two,” declared Kalvban, our boatswain. Kalvban was a burly man in his mid-thirties with deep-set brown eyes and curly hair. Generally, when the women of the _Revenge_ swooned over their male comrades ( _if_ they did, that is, which was never a given), it was Kalvban who usually got first mention. “Bavus-Naguty, Portugal, Guilder, then Florin. We’re looking at ... I don’t know ... nine hundred miles?”

 

   “Nine hundred miles ... in _two months?_ ” I shouted.

 

   “It’s workable,” said Ruhdsami. “A little more than fifteen miles a day. On horseback, that is more than comfortable.”

 

   “It’ll be more than that,” said Hindy, who stepped away from Crissah to address the crew. “Nine hundred miles as the crow flies. The true distance will be greater, possibly much greater. We need time to plan. We need time to organize!”

 

   “Agreed,” I said. “ I remember my boyhood training now. Twenty miles a day by horseback is entirely doable. That should get us home in time. We can do this.”

 

   “The problem is,” said Kalvban, “where are we going to get twenty-four fresh horses, and what are we going to do about the _Revenge_ while we’re gone? Who’s going to take care of her, look after her?”

 

   Kelale thought for a moment. “I have a friend—he lives in Portugal. His name is Mauro. He owns a ranch. He’s got horses; he’s got lots of them. He raises them for noblemen. I could send a courier to him. He’d get there before you did. The only problem is, he’ll demand top dollar. His horses are the finest Arabians.”

 

   Captain Montoya glanced at me. “Do we have enough, Paloni?”

 

   I shook my head and shrugged. I didn’t know.

 

   “He owes me quite a few favors,” said Kelale. “I got him started in business. I introduced him to his wife, who holds the family’s true wealth. She has no love for monarchies, especially Florin’s. Give me tonight to write the letter, and together, Captain, we’ll go to Noush in the morning and get the courier on his way, what do you say?”

 

   The captain gazed around at all of us. “This is all of our decision,” he said. “What say you, _Revenge_?”

 

   The crew looked around at each other, then nodded. No one shouted. It didn’t seem appropriate given the gravity of the moment.

 

 

 

 The captain woke me well before dawn. “I want you to come along, Paloni.”

 

   I nodded groggily and struggled to a sitting position. I was back in my cabin.

 

   Captain Montoya waited in the dark.

 

   “I’ve been up all night,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking of what those monsters will do to Crissah’s and Rye’s family if we don’t get back there in time. We’re going to need help. I don’t think we can pull this off otherwise.”

 

   I pulled on my trousers and shirt.

 

   “I’ve asked Kelale to bring extra horses. I may not have the gift of strategy, but my crew does,” he said. “Pick three to accompany us, Paloni. We can strategize while we ride.”

 

   “Yes, sir,” I said.

 

   He nodded, then left me to finish dressing.

 

 

 

 The sun was still a good hour from rising. We set out from the beach, climbed the steep and rocky slope to Kelale’s fields, then got on the trail leading into Noush.

 

   I’d selected Ruhdsami, since tactics were his stock-in-trade, and Marcell, and also Dauchkin, whose decades of experience pirating had to help. Too, he was also an expert rider and knew how to judge horses, like Rye, whom I chose to leave back at the camp.

 

   “Portugal is friendly with Guilder,” said Kelale, bringing up the rear. “They have been for centuries. The royal families of each are related down the line. Portugal’s king has spoken more than once of allowing Guilder to become a province. The only reason they haven’t is because Spain has repeatedly threatened to invade both if they do.”

 

   “Guilder,” I said, looking over my shoulder, “has always been very friendly to the _Revenge_. In fact, the _Revenge_ ’s original home port is in Guilder, and we are considered an honorary member of their navy. For that reason we do not plunder Guilderian vessels. We have no such understanding with Portugal, or with Spain, for that matter, which makes me concerned once we enter into Portugal. On more than one occasion we have had profitable run-ins with their merchant vessels, and with Spain’s too.”

 

   “But long ago, sir,” piped up Dauchkin, who rode in the middle. “It must be five years or more, at least with Portugal.”

 

   “But not with Spain,” countered Ruhdsami. “We ransacked one of their passenger ships just last year with Captain Westley.”

 

   Captain Montoya listened. “Do you think they’d remember us? Portugal, that is?”

 

   “On the high seas, no one can forget us,” I said with not just a little pride. “But over land?”

 

   “Agreed,” said Ruhdsami, who smiled. “We’re pirates, not bandits.”

 

   “There are many who’d say there is no difference,” said Marcell just behind me.

 

   “My point ...” started Ruhdsami.

 

   “I know what your point is,” grunted Marcell. “Pirates operate on the water; bandits over land. Got it.”

 

   “It is a valid argument,” said the captain, who with Ruhdsami shook his head at Marcell’s gruffness. (Marcell was _not_ a morning person.) “Our faces are recognizable on the water, but land might confuse our countenances. Kelale, my friend, what do you think?”

 

   “I think, my dear captain, that Ruhdsami has a real gift for strategy. I’d wager he’s right.”

 

   “It still leaves the problem of what to do with the _Revenge_ ,” I went on. “We’ll take a serious chance sailing into Portuguese waters. We avoided them coming down here. If we’re spotted, our mission likely ends right then and there.”

 

   “I’ve thought of that,” said Kelale. “Our capital city is three days’ journey up the coast. There are passenger ships leaving for Portugal, Guilder, _and_ Florin. My friend’s ranch is just outside Amarante, no more than a week’s journey from Porto. Providing that he’s willing to deal, you could make it back to Florin well before the deadline, even with snags. The question is: are you prepared to spend a fair amount of your booty?”

 

   “Without a doubt!” shouted Dauchkin. “The _Revenge_ has always taken care of me, and so I am going to take care of her and her crew!”

 

   “I think Dauchkin speaks for all of us,” I said. “Captain?” I glanced back at Captain Montoya.

 

   “It looks, gentlemen, as though the crew of the _Revenge_ are about to become _bandileros_!”

 

   “Here, here!” we yelled. “Here, here!”

 

 

 

 By the time we reached Noush, we’d made up our minds.

 

   Half of the _Revenge_ would board a passenger ship bound for Portugal once the courier returned with the rancher’s answer and his price for a dozen of his champion Arabians. The courier told us the round trip would require three weeks at full speed, maybe a day or two less given good weather and agreeable roads. That was acceptable. We paid her and sent her on her way.

 

   The remaining crew would take the _Revenge_ north towards Florin. Their task was reconnaissance: they would hug Florin’s coast once there, getting as close as they dare, and gauge the actions of the navy and possibly land for an attempt at saving Crissah’s and Rye’s parents.

 

   Taurdust was mentioned. If the _Revenge_ could recruit some mercenaries (if they could even get within sight of its port!), all the better. It all came down to the price the rancher was going to ask for his horses, and if we could even drop anchor there.

 

   We debated skipping the rancher altogether and shopping around for horses here, in Bavus-Naguty. But locating a dozen horses, road ready, healthy, and not desperately needed by their owners was no easy or simple task, no matter what we were willing to pay for them. Kelale assured us that it would be far better for us to select those who would go with the _Revenge_ and the Bandileros, and take the time to strategize.

 

   “But what if the price is too high?” I asked. “What if the rancher will sell us a dozen horses, but we can’t afford it? We’re screwed!”

 

   Kelale sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s the best we’ve got. Mauro is a good man. Very fair sort. He was once very poor. Like his wife, he too has no love for the Florin monarchy. I think my letter will prod him to part with his animals for a good price. We must have faith—and lots of patience.”

 

   Patience indeed.

 

 

 

 We spent the time back at the cove in furious strategizing sessions. To rid ourselves of the tension, Captain Montoya got even more militant about swimming lessons. We took the _Revenge_ out of the cove to open ocean and swam miles offshore and practiced lifesaving techniques. A small storm billowed in one day; we sailed out and practiced in rough seas. We were getting quite good. The crew of the _Revenge_ could swim, all of us, and quite well.

 

   And swordfight. Those practices were filled with extra urgency, extra concentration. It felt like boot camp. The parties ceased. The rum was stowed. We became soldiers, guided by the hand of a bona fide master who freely shared his secrets. Even Fezzik, that lovable giant, added some nimbleness to that awesome brute strength of his.

 

   Eighteen days after sending the courier on her way, Kelale woke us in the middle of the night. He had the response from his friend Mauro in Amarante. The captain opened the letter and read it aloud:

 

 _I am honored to be thought of by the legendary_ Revenge _._  
_I have a dozen fine steeds waiting; 3 gold per._  
_Anything to help punish Florin slime._  
_Be here soonest. Looking forward to meeting!_  
_- **M. Pinheiro**_

 

**_~~*~~_ **


	4. The Admiral Rolot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bandileros' adventures aren't going to wait for them to land in Portugal; not at all! Read on!

**The merchant vessel sailing out of Tortonnal was named the _Admiral Rolot_ (said with a silent _t_ ) and was probably eight times the size of the _Revenge_** and heavily laden with green sugar, an expensive emerald-colored commodity confined almost entirely within Bavus-Naguty’s borders, and one discovered only relatively recently and thus ravenously demanded in palaces and castles the world over. The _Admiral Rolot_ was therefore also heavily laden with an armed complement of twenty-six naval sailors, a mix of regular royals and mercenaries. Three royals were responsible for checking identification. We had taken great pains to make our fake ones quite authentic-looking, given of course the pressing time constraints on us.

 

   We staggered our approach to the queue waiting to board the day we were to depart so that we wouldn’t look like the marauding gang of pirates we were. Captain Montoya had re-cut his moustache and then his hair, paring it down to basically a crew-cut in order to foil detection. Florin’s monarchy had convinced Bavus-Naguty’s, apparently, to post WANTED signs here and there with his likeness on it. On our way into town we spied several. We tore them down.

 

   We anticipated for the queue and planned for it. The captain would come in the middle. If all hell broke loose, we’d be able to rush to his defense from all sides. As for who accompanied him, it required some fairly fierce debate before the captain, with my help, decided.

 

   The dozen Bandileros came down to the captain, myself, Rye Morgny and Crissah (of course: Rye was a wonderful rider anyway; and so was Crissah). Domingo, who had relatives in Portugal he was certain would help us should we need it, came along, as well as Chevor Zov, a Russian defector and master carpenter. Aledar Alemore, our gunnery sergeant and a wonderful translator (he could speak nine languages fluently), was in the group, along with Fan Chang, a Mongolian whose family roots apparently included Genghis Khan and who was also a marvel with horses and quite deadly with his fists and feet. Hindy and Stacie, whose skill with the blade were essential, were ready and dressed as high-class passengers (we purchased first-class tickets for them), along with Rynag-tai, Fan’s younger first cousin, who was a master pickpocket and lock-breaker. Finally, Angus Quaid, our ship’s Australian musician, who doubled as a damn fine cooper and cook, was selected, mostly because of his ability to bullshit the most stoic and levelheaded, and because of his superlative card-playing skills (we had all lost plenty of gold to him).

 

   I was the first of the Bandileros to make it to the front of the queue. Like all of us, I had chosen apparel that was safe, conservative, and ordinary, as opposed to our flashy pirating duds. I too had cut my hair (I had a pony-tail, now gone) and doffed a fine hat Kelale’s wife picked out for me from her husband’s collection—his “traveling hat,” as he put it. It made me look like a responsible citizen, at least to the degree such a thing was possible.

 

   The three sailors checking identification apparently bought it, too, because the one looking over my fake ID growled and thrust it back at me almost without reading it. (Identification came down to a small scroll of parchment with the official Bavus-Naguty seal and font, and included a description of its owner.) My sword, however, got his attention.

 

   “You got any other weapons on your person?” he demanded in standard English, which surprised me.

 

   I smiled congenially. “No, sir.”

 

   “You’ll need to check that in once you step onboard. It’ll be stored in the ship’s armory. Next!”

 

   I walked past him, then between the two guards pulling silent duty behind him. Both men looked entirely _not_ in the mood for pleasant conversation. I tipped my hat as I passed them. “Gentlemen ...”

 

   Once on deck, I handed my sword and sword-belt over to the sailor responsible for checking them. He was a bit nicer, and while he worked I made pleasant conversation with him until Chevor Zov boarded and handed his over. We went together to the cook (of which there were several), who pulled extra duty handing out bunk assignments.

 

   We were in second class. We got our assignments and made our way below deck. There we nervously waited for Captain Montoya. We had no fears about the rest of our gang save him. Even with a crewcut and no facial hair, his sharp eyes and high cheekbones and strong, pointed chin were dead giveaways.

 

   The Dread Pirate Roberts was the prize catch no matter which port you stopped the world over. Whether you found yourself in Africa or the Far East, his name and exploits were well known, as well as those of his famed crew. By the time the tales got back to us, of course, they had been blown out of all proportion and even, many times, recognition. We didn’t mind that.

 

   It was fortunate that for most of the world the Dread Pirate Roberts didn’t look like Captain Montoya, but Captain Westley.

 

   We _did_ mind that it was “known,” as we heard one woman breathlessly share with her bunkmate as she settled in, that the _Revenge_ was “somewhere nearby,” and that she hoped the pirates would spare this vessel.

 

   Of course, we had no plans to plunder this vessel, heavy as it was with expensive green sugar. The only thing on our collective mind was going to the aid of Crissah and Rye’s relatives and the imminent danger they faced from Dynatis Rugen and the Florin monarchy.

 

   When Captain Montoya made it aboard safely and got down to us, those of us who were already waiting gave visible sighs of relief.

 

   “Any problems, sir?” I asked.

 

   He shook his head. “One of them commented on the craftsmanship of my sword, to which I thanked him. A Spanish woman wished me a good day and a happy voyage in our native tongue, to which I returned the salutation. Other than that, all has proceeded smoothly.”

 

   “For once,” Chevor and I said together.

 

 

 

 When the rest of the Bandileros made it safely aboard, we allowed ourselves to relax. It was, of course, impossible to do, at least fully. We felt split, sundered. Half our comrades were back aboard the _Revenge_ sailing north, and Hindy and Stacie were up in first class. For them to mingle with the unwashed below decks would be seen as socially unacceptable and would bring unwanted attention down upon us.

 

   As for our comrades aboard the _Revenge_ , it would be a perilous voyage for them, especially as they approached Florin. The Florin navy would be out in force looking for them. We had to consider the possibility that our suspected presence in this part of the world had become widespread news. Anything was possible, we reasoned, and so we reminded ourselves to be prepared for anything.

 

   Marcell Shya, our crusty bosun, was acting captain. Even I, the always cautious First Mate, had little to worry about there. Shya was as seasoned and respected a sailor as existed. It was noteworthy to me how the British Royal Navy, which had shafted me, also thought that he was unworthy. Shya’s smarts, cunning, and toughness had saved the _Revenge_ ’s bacon countless times. He commanded respect not through his gruffness, but because he gave that respect back in spades provided you worked your ass off for him.

 

   Those under his command would make any pirate ship proud. They included Fezzik, whom we (and he) decided would, with his massive strength, be utilized best aboard ship; Emeri, who recently had been understudying Kay Ruhdsami, whose tactical brilliance was essential; Niltia Chadra, our brilliant lookout, scout, and cartographer; Olive, whom Marcell would surely employ as firing specialist in lieu of Ruhdsami; Liliana, whose sword-fighting skills had taken a quantum leap forward these past months, and would surely serve Acting Captain Shya well; Kalvban, our burly boatswain, who would be assisted by the steady and quiet Ryan Ymoro; Warren Morarda, our Florinian fugitive from justice, who killed a Florin guard trying to rape his mother, and who therefore had to flee for his life (he’s a marvelous sailor and sheet-handler); Anakoni Arpolo, our quiet Pacific Islander and probably second only to Fezzik in terms of sheer strength; and finally, the inimitable and irreplaceable Theodore Dauchkin, whose quick eye and relentless work ethic would serve Captain Shya well.

 

   We said our good-byes with handshakes, hugs, and a tear or two. As the Bandileros climbed up the walls of the cove and began our trek toward Kelale’s farm, we turned and glanced back at our ship. Shya had already gotten them into the longboats, which were making their way back towards it. By the time we got to Tortonnal later that day, it would already be on the high seas on a heading towards danger. We wouldn’t see them pass.

 

   The captain of the _Admiral Rolot_ was a thin, bearded (but no moustache) man by the name of Granyv Sloen. He came below decks once with his First to make the general pre-launch inspection, grunting as he looked things over. They continued on below, ostensibly to check on the security of the green sugar stores, and on the disposition of the third-class passengers, which made up the bulk of the travelers. About half an hour after that we heard the bell announcing cast-off, and then the bosun shouting orders to his crew.

 

   Thankfully these second-class passenger bunks hadn’t been completely claimed. There were probably ten that were left empty near the back. It was there we gathered to talk.

 

   “Captain,” said Fan quietly, “how many days is it to Porto?”

 

   Domingo answered. “Three days, according to Kelale.”

 

   “No,” said Chevor, shaking his head. “That’s how many days it’s going to take to get to High Tanes, Bavus-Naguty’s capital.”

 

   “That’s right,” I confirmed, remembering Kelale’s maps, and our own back aboard the _Revenge_. “We’ve got three days’ ride to High Tanes, then another ... how far from there to Porto?”

 

   “I believe it’s another two or three days,” answered Angus Quaid. “Given good weather.”

 

   “You said you’ve been there,” said the captain, recalling our conversation last night in the inn.

 

   Quaid nodded. “Quiet little port village. Doesn’t have much in the way of strategic importance to Portugal’s navy, so we shouldn’t be harassed.”

 

   “Famous last words,” grunted Emeri.

 

 

 

 As a First Mate, it was impossible for me not to watch the _Admiral Rolot_ ’s crew, and its First Mate in particular, as they, and he, worked around the ship. It was impossible for me not to compare them to the intrepid scalawags of the _Revenge_.

 

   Pirate ships commonly fail because their crews never find that “sweet spot” of efficiency, discipline, smarts, and camaraderie. It is, admittedly, very difficult to achieve. Pirates aren’t typically known as disciplined men or women. That’s kind of the point!

 

   Pirates, too, rightly, have reputations for greed and selfishness. Both mitigate against efficiency, discipline, smarts, and especially camaraderie. The former captains of the _Revenge_ had long ago figured that out, and so guarded against crewmembers who displayed both to too great a degree. It turned out, perhaps surprisingly to those early captains, that crew who worked for the common good, who weren’t too selfish or greedy, who didn’t mind a little discipline, who got along, were those crew who became very rich in the end.

 

   It was why, when we needed a new captain and couldn’t choose one from among the crew, that we didn’t necessarily scout for one with years of high seas experience, or one who had a reputation for plundering and robbing, or one who fit some preconceived notion of what a captain looked like. What we looked for was, in the end, undefinable. Not just leadership; not just efficiency; not just discipline; not just the ability to get along with others; not just selflessness and modesty.

 

   Captain Westley had given us the highest recommendation for Inigo Montoya. But Inigo Montoya could have failed. What wasn’t known about the _Revenge_ was that we have had our share of failures in the captaincy, not to mention the crew (Bacco, anyone?). The captain of the _Revenge_ was not given absolute power. We had a system, one we considered sacred, for replacing a captain should it become necessary. That too was completely unheard of.

 

   We busied ourselves the rest of the day with various games we’d brought aboard, and with catching up on rest, which had come in short supply with all of the furious planning the past several days. We were all quite tired. At one point several of us went topside to check on Hindy and Stacie, to see if they were around and securely installed in their first-class accommodations.

 

   Both were near the port bow. They saw us and smiled.

 

   Classism was as prevalent throughout Europe as it was in Florin. First-class passengers did not generally mingle with anyone not in first class, but as long as they were already in the presence of other “lower” passengers, which they and several other first-classers were, folks didn’t care as much. The ship had launched, and the military and their paid mercs were clearly concerned with the green sugar in the _Rolot_ ’s belly, not with the social niceties of its passengers.

 

   Crissah had come with me. Hindy and Stacie both gave her a big hug. “How are you holding up?” asked Stacie.

 

   Crissah’s grief had solidified into stony resolve, even more so as we got underway. The fact that the boat was moving seemed to have picked her spirits up.

 

   “Hanging in there,” she replied. “It feels like we’re a million miles away. I keep praying for a stronger tailwind.” She glanced up with frustration. “But we’re in beautiful, temperate, calm Bavus-Naguty waters. I wish I could see the _Revenge_ , but it’s probably miles ahead of us by now.”

 

   “I spoke to one of the crew earlier,” said Hindy. “There isn’t much of a wind, that much is true,” she went on, “but just a half-day out is ...”

 

   “That’s right!” I cut in. “I’d forgotten! Baby Irminger!”

 

   Baby Irminger was a short but very powerful north-bearing ocean current that was found fifty or so miles off the Bavus-Naguty and Portuguese coasts. We had avoided it as we fled Florin, for it would have slowed us down—as in considerably. North-traveling ships coming through these waters sought it out because it cut all sorts of time, sometimes days, off trip time, especially during the spring. The _Rolot_ was making directly for it, sailing west-northwest.

 

   Crissah, knowledgeable and smart sailor she was, knew instantly what we were talking about. A slight but lasting smile creased her lips. She seemed, at least a little, relieved.

 

   “How are your accommodations?” grinned Angus Quaid. “They treatin’ ya right up there?”

 

   Both Hindy and Stacie gave guilty smiles. “We have servers. There are crew in fancy clothes like butlers. They knock on our door and ask if we want anything from the galley. Apparently they even turn down our beds at night and leave mints on our pillows, and for a fee they’ll play a sweet fiddle for us!”

 

   I shook my head disdainfully.

 

   “I saw a family heading to third class,” commented Angus. “Basically a wet corner in the bowels. Father seemed like a good bloke, just lookin’ for work, somethin’ to help out his family.”

 

   “It really doesn’t change, does it?” said Stacie. “In the end, everyone’s like Florin, some less so, maybe, but really, does it matter in the end?”

 

   “Bavus-Naguty, I’m certain, has their own version of the Pit of Despair,” I mused. “Governments are never about the people. They’re always about maintaining power for a tiny elite at the expense of everyone else.”

 

 

 

The galley served everyone; but if you were in second or third class, you had to enter from the back. We bought our dinners, received them, and took them back to our bunks. Captain Montoya stayed behind to talk to the head chef. I waited for him.

 

   It ended up that he did something that made me gape, both in wonder at his character and also in concern that he might be found out for being something other than a dashing man in second class: he paid for the meals of everyone in third class, and even paid for the kitchen staff to deliver those meals personally.

 

   “I will check on them later to see if they have been duly served,” he smiled pleasantly at the head chef. “If they have but a single complaint, you and I, sir, will have more words.”

 

   The chef didn’t seem up to the challenge. He swallowed hard and nodded with the same intensity, his triple chins wobbling.

 

   “Sir,” I offered, “don’t you think we should uh, kind of maintain a lower, uh, profile—?”

 

   “Tell me about your family, Duncan,” he interrupted.

 

   “Uh ...” I began. “Four sisters. I was in the middle—two older, two younger. Mother was the third cousin of a Duchess, so we had a little money from her father’s inheritance. My dad was a glass manufacturer in London. He died in an accident when I was thirteen. We moved into a cottage the Duchess owned shortly after. She gave it to us rent-free. We didn’t suffer financially, but emotionally. My mother never got over Dad’s death.”

 

   “What happened to her?”

 

   “She’s in the care of my older sisters. She had a stroke that left her paralyzed a few years ago. I visit her when I can, which isn’t nearly enough.”

 

   We got back to our bunks and began eating. It was bean soup with ham and bread. Passable and filling. Other Bandileros were returning from the galley; some had already eaten and were reading or napping, or up topside.

 

   “Please tell me about your family, sir,” I said. “I know about your father. He was a swordmaker and killed by Count Rugen, was he not?”

 

   The captain nodded somberly.

 

   “You looked for his killer for twenty years ...”

 

   “Yes,” he said quietly.

 

   “May I ask how it felt when you finally killed Count Rugen?”

 

   He thought for a long time. Chevor, Angus, Rye, and Domingo joined us.

 

   “I went home to see my mother,” he answered quietly. “I told her what I did. She asked me that same question. I’ll tell you what I told her: that it felt really, really good. She’s a deeply religious woman who feels that revenge is wrong. She told me. I knew she would.”

 

   “What did you say to her?”

 

   He shrugged. “Revenge isn’t always wrong. That’s what I told her. Sometimes it’s the only right thing to do. I do not regret the twenty years I hunted for Father’s killer; and I do not regret driving my blade into his rib cage. I do not regret watching him gasp his last breaths of air; and I do not regret what I told him just before he died.”

 

   “What did you tell him?”

 

   “I told him I wanted my father back. I called him a son of a bitch. And then he died.”

 

   “Are you close to your mother?”

 

   He shrugged again. “Some days more than others. She’s very religious, as I said. She has her views; I have mine. Sometimes that means we don’t talk for a long time. I think it will be a while before we talk again. She begged me to go to church to beg for forgiveness for my sinning ways. I told her I was going to captain the _Revenge_. I could hear her voice half a mile down the road as I rode off.”

 

   That eventually led to an hours-long discussion between all ten of us (Hindy and Stacie couldn’t come down to second-class without being looked at very suspiciously, as I already mentioned) about our families, devotion, and loyalty, not just to them, but to ourselves.

 

   “I really miss my family,” said Rye at the end of it. “I would give my life to save any of them, not just my dad or my sis. But this crew feels like family to me, too.” He glanced at us. “Thank you all for doing this for them.”

 

   Crissah’s eyes had welled up and spilled over. I put my arm around her. “Yes,” she cried. “Me, too. Me, too!”

 

 

 

We spent the night playing Monte Bank (Hindy and Stacie went to the _Rolot_ ’s casino—yes, it actually had one, one right above us judging by the laughter and music) until, one by one, we knocked off. Quaid, as happened more than not, won the pot. He gave me, his last challenger, a victorious grin as he took the small pile of gold. “Thanks, mate. Ya gave me a good challenge there.”

 

   I returned his victorious grin with a frustrated one. “Tomorrow night, then. I’ll win it back.”

 

   “I’ll be ready.”

 

   It was tough getting to sleep—and not just because of the din above us. I couldn’t stop thinking of the _Revenge_. Before I crawled into my bunk, I went and sat next to Crissah and watched her sleep. She was having a rough go of it. I reached and stroked her hair, then went to my bunk, which was two rows down.

 

   The _Rolot_ ’s ponderous movement was difficult to get used to. When I did get to sleep, it was because I forced myself to think of my quarters back on the _Revenge_ , and my bunk, and what it felt like to sleep aboard her.

 

 

 

We woke with alarm bells ringing out and crew scurrying here and there and yelling. We gathered ourselves and hurried to the topdeck to see what was going on.

 

   To port was another ship. A pirate ship, judging by the black flag it was flying. They were yelling at the _Rolot_ to drop sails and to prepare to be boarded. The armed contingent were taking up arms and readying the ship’s cannons.

 

**~~*~~**


	5. Robbed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Admiral Rolot is under attack by pirates! What will the legendary pirates of the Revenge, sailing aboard her, do? Read on!

**We gathered together in a mad rush as _Rolot_ ’s passengers went into a full panic**. I was intensely grateful that moment that we all had bunks in the same approximate area. I was much less grateful that two of our own, Hindy and Stacie, were up a deck in first class, and even less grateful that we had no access to our weapons, which were secured in a locker somewhere, as were those of every passenger aboard ship.

 

   “Talk about being born on the wrong side of the world!” complained Angus Quaid. “We’re pirates being raided—by pirates! We’re bloody unarmed!”

 

   “If we have to, these will become our weapons,” declared Fan Chang, holding up his fists. While in the cove he and Rynag-tai had taught us some close-action martial skills. While certainly not skilled as either, we did learn much and did acquire some proficiency.

 

   The problem was, muskets and pistols were much deadlier. That’s what the military aboard this vessel had, and almost certainly what the pirates were packing too.

 

   Regarding muskets and pistols, they were bulky, slow to load, slower to reload, and often untrue to their aim. For that reason, we of the _Revenge_ didn’t bother with projectile weapons other than brute cannonry, much more accurate given their bulk, to protect our intrepid ship. Oh, we had lockers full of both types, but we believed, and relied upon, stealth, cunning, and speed.

 

   We heard a quick series of shots, followed by screams. Men began yelling incoherently; the deck above sounded like a herd of cattle was scurrying to find cover.

 

   “Captain,” said Rynag-tai. “Let me and Fan go topside. I think I can pick the lock to the armory. The military won’t be watching us. They’re probably all on deck!”

 

   Another round of shots sounded out. Like before, they were immediately followed by screams and more thumping about as people sought cover.

 

   “Something’s wrong,” said Crissah, glaring up at the ceiling from the wholly inadequate protection beneath her hammock. “They’re not on deck. Those shots ...”

 

   I had heard what she did. “They’re directly above us— _indoors_. We should have heard the pirates return fire. We haven’t. Why?”

 

   Captain Montoya glanced at Rynag-tai and his older cousin. “Go. Make no attempt at breaking into the armory if it’s still being guarded. I agree: something very odd is happening. Have you noticed how quiet it’s gotten?”

 

   We listened. It indeed had gone sinisterly silent.

 

   “Duncan,” he said, grabbing my wrist. “Go with them. If you can’t get to the armory, get to Hindy and Stacie.”

 

   “Aye, sir. Where should we meet up with you?”

 

   “I suggest we meet in third class,” Aledar offered after more noise of people moving hurriedly about above quietened. We thought we could hear someone yelling. “Third class is dark. The green sugar is down there. More hiding places. If needed, we could ambush better down there.”

 

   “Agreed,” the group murmured.

 

   “Get moving,” ordered the captain. “Weapons or no weapons, we will be able to protect our own much better down there—particularly if those pirates make us, which they probably will.”

 

 

 

Rynag-tai, Fan, and I inched up the stairs to the topdeck on our hands and knees. I led the way. At the top I glanced around.

 

   The topdeck was eerily empty. I crawled up another step and glanced to port.

 

   The pirate ship was angling closer. It would be close enough for the marauders to board in less than half an hour. It wasn’t using any sort of standard cautionary approach to lower its profile that any decent scalawag captain would while coming up against a ship he was thinking of robbing—especially one as large and heavily armed as this one. Bold as brass, the pirate vessel presented its full starboard side to the _Admiral Rolot_ , as though quite confident that the _Rolot_ ’s formidable cannons would not fire on it.

 

   I motioned Rynag-tai and Fan up. They cautiously glanced at the goings-on.

 

   Fan shook his head furiously. “It’s a set-up! We hear shots from above, but no return fire from the pirates? The deck is clear? No cannons? Everyone upstairs is inside? The pirates are on a parallel approach? It’s a set-up! This boat’s crew is compromised!”

 

   There was no other way of interpreting the goings-on. The _Rolot_ was indeed being robbed—but the pirates were already on board!

 

   “If we go up there, they’ll either shoot us or herd us with the others,” I said. “Sneaking out onto that open deck will only endanger us!”

 

   “I wouldn’t doubt if there are snipers watching it,” grumbled Fan. “They’ll kill anyone from belowdecks!”

 

   “From the pirate ship _and_ from above us,” suggested Rynag-tai.

 

   “Thoughts?” I hissed.

 

   “The galley,” whispered Fan. “It’s on the topdeck, behind first class, but it has a back entrance for second- and third-class passengers! They may not have thought of it!”

 

 

 

We passed our comrades on the way back.

 

   “What’s going on?” they demanded, crowding around us. We told them, and also told them of our plan to get up to first class via the back galley entrance.

 

   “Go,” said Captain Montoya. “Go!”

 

   Would the pirates or the traitors among the military contingent have thought of the galley’s back entrance in their plundering plans? At the stairs up to it, I glanced over my shoulder to see the rest of the Bandileros making their way down the stairs to third class. Crissah gave me a worried smile, which I returned. Then she was gone.

 

   There were eight steps to the door, which was closed. Fan tried opening it.

 

   Unlocked.

 

   Movement. Men were suddenly at the stairs we were just at moments earlier as we scoped out the topdeck and the looming pirate vessel. They were heavily armed, several with pistols, the rest with drawn cutlasses. We crowded up against the door and the deeper shadows of the well as they walked quickly towards the stairs that would take them down to third class. Hopefully our comrades heard their approach and got out of sight.

 

   As for the men themselves, it was, unbelievably, the first officer leading the plunderers, two or three more of the _Rolot_ ’s crew, and the rest military. The jerks that checked our IDs were both there!

 

   Fan has a firm grip on the door handle. “C’mon,” he whispered as the men disappeared down the stairs—that is, just before the First Officer threatened everyone: “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay exactly where you are! Do that, and no one else has to die!”

 

   Fan pushed the door open three or four inches. It creaked. I nodded for him to continue. He pushed more. The creaking continued, but only for an instant longer. We opened it just wide enough for us to slip through one at a time.

 

   I was last to go through. As carefully as I could, I pushed it closed again. The door, oddly enough, didn’t creak as it clicked closed.

 

   The _Rolot_ ’s galley was larger than any I’d ever seen on a tall ship. It gave us more than enough room to crouch and move forward without banging into pans or cabinets. We proceeded on our hands and knees towards what was probably the back entrance to the dining room.

 

   The door that would admit us was, unsurprisingly, locked. The keyhole was wide enough to peer through. I put my eye against it.

 

   Women were crying. Besides that there was nothing—no sounds of movement, no men talking, no babies or children crying, nothing. Likely everyone was under guard, then.

 

   The view through was sightless. Someone was leaning against the door, but then moved away. He or she wore scarlet.

 

   Stacie was wearing scarlet the last time I saw her!

 

   She was no dummy. Positioning herself next to the door would be, in fact, something she’d do, or at least try to do. She had a nickname, ol’ Stace: “Viper.” She constantly looked for an advantage, whether it be swordfighting or card-playing or just bantering back and forth, and did so often quite sneakily and underhandedly, just like a viper would.

 

   The guards watching her wouldn’t particularly care about someone hanging out next to a back door, especially if that person was a woman. The _Rolot_ was, after all, miles out at sea. Where would some helpless woman go that the pirates wouldn’t eventually find? They had heaps of fear and uncertainty on their side, not to mention a complete lockdown on all weapons!

 

   I turned to my comrades. “It might be Stacie. She might be right next to the door!”

 

   Neither reacted, because there really wasn’t anything to react to. It was, at best, a wild guess. Scarlet was a popular color, especially among women, especially these days. Any one of a dozen could have been wearing it!

 

   If I got the person’s attention and it _wasn’t_ Stacie or Hindy, we could be in big trouble.

 

   At that moment, very quietly, we heard the lock click.

 

   I jammed my eye against the keyhole. It was filled again. Then it wasn’t (again). The person on the other side withdrew the key, which he or she must have pickpocketed at some earlier point with the deftness ... of a viper.

 

   When would it be safe to open the door? The guards would be watching.

 

   Be it Stacie or Hindy—and it was one of them for sure—she leaned against the door again, blocking the view through the keyhole. Very softly, she began tapping on the wood.

 

   Long ago, the _Revenge_ ’s crew came up with a code to communicate with each other called Cummerbund’s Call, or, as we know it, the Call. All crew were required to know it inside and out in the event we were captured and needed a way while behind bars to communicate with each other, should speaking not be possible or advisable, and our compatriots happened to be close enough to hear. The Call had come to our aid on more occasions than we could count.

 

   Stacie or Hindy was using it now. Both Fan and Rynag-tai heard it too.

 

   She tapped the message:

 

   _“Two guarding. Lackeys. Pistols. Heard door creak. If you, respond.”_

 

   I rapped as softly as I could, but hard enough that, hopefully, she heard.

 

   _“Three door. Inside job. Gang third class. Advise situation.”_

 

   The response: _“Captain, two bridge dead. Pirates threat. Royals traitors. Kidnap women slavery. Ship be sunk.”_

 

   I rapped back. _“Paloni. Order: disarm lackeys.”_

 

   _“Moment,”_ came the response.

 

   It was quiet for a half-minute, and then a very brief burst of sound, like someone was moving large pieces of furniture. Several women screamed.

 

   The door opened. We scrambled to our feet.

 

   Stacie’s grin was momentary. “I’d complain to the captain about the poor service, but ...”

 

   She stepped aside so we could look. A pile of three bodies lay in a pool of blood in the center of the floor. The captain’s was one of them.

 

   There were two more bodies, these by the front entrance, their mortal faces frozen with surprise. Hindy stood over them, the sword she was gripping dripping. Fan and Rynag-tai went to her while Stacie and I hurried to the captain. Two of his crew had joined him in death. All had been shot in the head execution-style and for some gruesome reason stacked on each other.

 

   “If the pirates suspect any trouble,” hissed a portly man in a fine dinner jacket, “they will _kill_ us! They _told_ us!”

 

   “I hate to inform you, my good man,” I murmured, going through the captain’s pockets and finding a set of keys in a hidden one (experienced captains often had hidden pockets sewn into their clothing), “but they’re going to kill us anyway as soon as they finish loading the green sugar onto the scalawag just off port.”

 

   A woman screamed. Another fainted.

 

   Hindy scowled. Stacie shook her head.

 

   “Were we not up here,” she said, “we’d be completely helpless.”

 

   It was the captain who had thought of putting a couple of _Revenge_ ’s crew in first class. “Just as a precaution,” he had told me.

 

   “Against what?” I had asked.

 

   “Against our discovery, for one,” he replied. “And because something is telling me to be careful. Maybe it’s because I’m finally getting used to this captain business.”

 

   “Merchant ships are usually well-armed,” I said. “So are some modern passenger ships. Do you suspect trouble, Captain?”

 

   He gave me a hard grin. “ _We’re_ trouble, Paloni. I don’t need to suspect any.”

 

   Hindy joined us. She had the swords from the fallen marauders and handed one to me. I gave it to Stacie. Fan and Rynag-tai were going through the marauders’ pockets. The crowd was getting antsy. Several more women were crying. Two were praying. The men were grumbling. The one I’d addressed earlier groused, “Whoever you people are, you’re going to get us all killed! We were told that if we behaved and caused no trouble, we’d not be harmed!”

 

   I stood and got up against him, nose to nose. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? The pirates are going to kill all of us as soon as they’ve offloaded the green sugar to the scalawag!”

 

   The man was clearly intimidated, but to his credit didn’t waver save to take a step back. “You don’t know that!”

 

   “Indeed I do,” I retorted. “It takes great skill to rob a ship like this while harming no one. In fact, only one pirate ship can pull it off—and that ship out there—” I pointed—“is _not_ the _Revenge_. Which means, good sir, that these brutes have no intentions of leaving this tub intact once they’ve got their prize. They aren’t skilled enough. Do you understand now?”

 

   He must have been the president of a big company or some such, because such insolence and bravado was something that, judging by the prideful anger that flashed in his eyes, he surely enjoyed crushing in his employees. It certainly wasn’t the anger stoked by the desire to listen and be a part of the solution, and in fact was confirmed a moment later with: “And how would _you_ know it is not the _Revenge_ out there? Word is out in these parts that the _Revenge_ is in fact sailing these very waters!”

 

   The crowd had quietened to listen to our exchange.

 

   I grinned. “I know that isn’t the _Revenge_ out there, sir, because I’m the First Mate of the _Revenge_!”

 

   The same women who had screamed before screamed again. One of the fainters, having woken, fainted again. The rest—men and women, all dressed in the finery of the age—all blinked eyes to their widest and backed away from us as though choreographed, including the man, who hissed, “ _More_ pirate scum? I _knew_ it!”

 

   Both Hindy and Stacie, armed now, advanced on him.

 

   “Halt!” I ordered.

 

   They stopped, but didn’t lower their weapons.

 

   “Someday you’ll look back on this day and thank God that the rogues of the _Revenge_ were here.” I glanced down his person, back up into his eyes. “Or not. I can tell you’re going to be trouble. Fan ...”

 

   Fan stepped forward.

 

   “See to it that this finely dressed captain of industry is properly muted, won’t you?”

 

   I stepped away as Fan replaced me. The man was sweating now. “Now wait just a ...”

 

   Fan’s fist flashed into his jaw. The man’s head snapped obliquely to the left, knocking him unconscious instantly. A collective gasp and more screams sounded out as he crumpled into a heap. Fan, kneeling next to him, tore his expensive jacket and began using the strips to bind him.

 

   “The armory is down the hall, second door on the right,” said Stacie. “There are snipers at the end. They’re keeping an eye on the topdeck. They aren’t concerned about us.”

 

   Rynag-tai snorted. He was helping his cousin bind the loudmouth. “You were right, Duncan. Had we gone that way, we would’ve been shot.”

 

   “It’s hard to rob a ship when the passengers are in a wild panic,” I grumbled. “Can we get to the armory without the snipers spotting us?”

 

   “Leave that up to us,” said Fan, who with Rynag-tai stood.

 

   “We should get a move on,” urged Hindy. “As soon as that green sugar is offloaded, this boat is a goner! We need to find the crew and get them involved!”

 

   A couple well-dressed men approached me.

 

   “We’d like to help,” said one. He was young, a few years my junior, I reckoned, and dashingly good-looking and fit, as was his dark friend. His accent was Spanish or Portuguese, and very thick. “We served in His Majesty’s navy. Please.”

 

   I motioned impatiently for quiet. Fan and Rynag-tai were at the front door. With great care, they twisted the knob and eased it open. Hindy and Stacie again motioned for everyone to remain completely quiet.

 

   The door, thankfully, only creaked a tiny bit, not enough to alert the lookouts, who faced away as they stood on the landing at the end of the hall, muskets raised and pointing in a steady, sweeping lookout. They appeared quite intent on doing their jobs, and indeed probably didn’t hear the commotion in here. If they did, it was plain they didn’t care.

 

   With great stealth, Fan and his cousin, hugging opposite walls and low to the ground, made their way towards them.

 

   The one on the right wheeled around at the last instant. He tried to yell and fire, but Rynag-tai was instantly there. With a burst of speed too fast to follow, he grabbed the man’s skull and twisted it violently as Fan reached around and snapped the windpipe of the other. The men crumpled dead at my comrades’ feet, who quickly disarmed them and hurried to the armory. Fan had the keys.

 

   I faced the volunteers. “We need to get everyone armed. Thank you for helping.”

 

   “We’d like to help, too,” said two more men. “What can we do?”

 

   “The women and children need to be protected. Would you be willing to do that?”

 

   “Of course ... of course,” responded one while the other nodded emphatically.

 

   I split the Bandileros into two teams. Fan and Stacie were with me, along with one of the first men who had volunteered. Hindy, Rynag-tai, and the other veteran were in the other team.

 

   I motioned for quiet and with my team slunk down the hall to the second door on the right. Fan fit the key into the lock and opened the door. We hurried into the armory.

 

   I was familiar enough with everyone on the _Revenge_ to recognize their weapons, all of which were personalized. I snatched the captain’s last while Fan, Rynag-tai, Hindy, and Stacie grabbed armfuls of swords, daggers, and even a pistol or two. We scampered as quietly as we could back to the dining galley and handed weapons out to all who would take one. I was surprised when half a dozen very high-class-looking women took daggers. They all had children, and were obviously prepared to fight for their lives.

 

   I gathered them all together. “We retake this tub with cunning and quiet—we use pistols and muskets only as a last resort. The pirates will be offloading green sugar up to the topdeck very soon, and then to the scalawag. They’ll also be preparing charges or cannons or both to sink the _Rolot_ as soon as they are done. Time is of the essence. We’ve got maybe ten minutes. We need to free the rest of the crew so that they can man the cannons and canvases after we make our move. I don’t see any way around a fight. We just need to be ready when it comes. Now—where _are_ the rest of the crew?”

 

   “This way,” said one of the men.

 

   Our teams split up. Mine hurried down the hall, nearly to its end. The others would go back the way we had come, weapons bundled, as they worked their way as fast as they could down to third class—all, somehow, without being seen.

 

   On the left were two doors, fairly widely spaced apart. I opened them. The doors opened into what appeared to be a smoking room and a saloon.

 

   The crew of the _Rolot_ stared at us as we entered. They had all been bound and gagged. Three had been shot dead.

 

**~~*~~**


	6. Firefight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marauders had no idea that *real* pirates were aboard the Admiral Rolot who were more than willing to defend her. Read on!

**I counted sixteen survivors**. Several, probably assuming we were with the marauders and coming to execute them, began bellowing from behind their gags. We jerked our fingers to our lips to quiet them.

 

   I stepped forward.

 

   “My name is Duncan Paloni. I am First Mate on the pirate ship _Revenge_. We are here to save you, not harm you.”

 

   I motioned to Fan to free them. He was the natural choice. His martial skills would protect him should one of them decide that pirates coming to rescue them were still pirates and therefore worthy of death. I told them because I knew they’d find out soon enough, and we didn’t have time to argue about the morality of it all.

 

   The men stared. None tried to attack. Stacie and our tag-along, a strong-looking bloke by the name of Artemus, stood ready, weapons drawn. One of the men spoke.

 

   “I’m the navigator. Where’s the captain?”

 

   “Your captain is dead,” I informed him. “Your first officer is a mutineer who is working with the marauders, as are a handful more of your crew and the so-called military. Are you aware of that?”

 

   The color left the men’s faces. “No,” murmured the navigator.

 

   “They’re dead men!” growled another. Several nodded vigorously in agreement.

 

   Another gesticulated at me. “ _He’s_ a pirate too! Why aren’t we taking him down?”

 

   “I’m with the _Revenge_ too,” announced Stacie, shifting her sword in a not-so-subtle fashion.

 

   “Me, too,” said Fan as he released the final prisoner. He flashed that deadly Asian rictus.

 

   That quieted them down.

 

   “We’ve got minutes at most to stop them,” I said. “After that this ship is going to be blown out of the water. Now get off your asses and let’s go!”

 

   This they did. To a man, they were infuriated and ready to fight. I was impressed by that, because in my experience half of any bound and gagged group released to freedom can’t find the backbone to confront their perpetrators, even if they were trained in the military or were on active duty.

 

   They hurried into the armory and returned moments later armed to the teeth. At that point we heard yelling from below us, and shots being fired.

 

   With the snipers dead, we only had to deal with shooters from the pirate ship sailing parallel off port. Still very dangerous—but it was a risk we’d have to take.

 

   The navigator glanced at me. It was a look that clearly conveyed that I was leading everyone, so I ordered, “Stay down and take positions at the stairs to the lower decks! The pirates are after the green sugar—”

 

   More shots rang out, and more yells.

 

   “—and they can’t get that off board without using the stairs!”

 

   I readied myself, and glanced at Stacie and Fan. Artemus looked like he wanted all sorts of revenge. I worried about my compatriots as more shots sounded out. I heard several women scream. I shouted:

 

   “Three, two, one— _go! go! go!_ ”

 

   The _Rolot_ ’s once-bound crew followed me to the opening where the dead snipers lay. Crouching, we scurried down the stairs to the topdeck.

 

   Shots immediately sounded out from the pirate ship. A bullet zinged by my ear and ricocheted off the wood just behind me. We bustled down the stairs as fast as we could, and got to the stairs that would lead us below decks. Another bullet whizzed by. Men aboard the pirate ship were now yelling, trying to get their compatriots’ attention, who couldn’t possibly hear them. What sounded like a full-on firefight was now taking place beyond where our bunks were, possibly at the bottom of the stairs leading to deck three.

 

   We managed to get off the topdeck without being shot. The day’s bright sunlight made it hard to see until my eyes adjusted.

 

   And just like that, the shooting stopped.

 

   Captain Montoya was suddenly at the top of the stairs leading down to third class. He carried a pistol, which was smoking from the barrel. He scanned around, his eyes fierce. He hadn’t seen me or my team (we were hiding in the shadows of the stairwell itself), but must have heard the shots from the scalawag as we came barreling down from the topdeck.

 

   I yelled “Captain!” and emerged from the shadows, as did Fan and Stacie. He jerked his head my way, raising the musket to fire, but then, recognizing my voice, called out, “Paloni?”

 

   I ran to him, followed by my team. “What’s going on?”

 

   He eyed the following crewmen, who were to a man staring in awe. This was the Dread Pirate Roberts—aboard _their_ ship!

 

   He glanced past my shoulder at them. “The marauders are dead. The scalawag is about to fire on us! _To the cannons! To the cannons!_ ”

 

   The men didn’t hesitate; nor did they question Captain Montoya’s orders or his leadership. With a yell they ran to the port shell doors and yanked them open, revealing the narrow corridor where the cannons waited in darkness.

 

   (What are shell doors? Aboard merchant and passenger vessels, particularly ones this large, the ship’s inner hull is often built as a “shell” that can be breached through watertight doors to the outer hull, where cannons wait. Not many navies employed shells due to their enormous expense, but they should have, for such ships often survived attack where few others did.)

 

   The _Admiral Rolot_ was much larger than the scalawag, whose crew now fired indiscriminately at us. I hurried to a cannon and pulled the shutter open. Across the thirty or so yards of water between us, I could see their shutters being pulled open as fast as possible as well.

 

   Artemus was my firing partner. The cannons had already been pre-loaded.

 

   The scalawag beat us to the attack with a broadside. The roar was deafening. Cannonshot slammed against the _Rolot_ , shaking her. I could hear screams echo distantly throughout the ship.

 

   “Prepare to fire!” bellowed Captain Montoya. He held his hand up.

 

   The pirates on that ship didn’t have a death wish, and so their ship immediately turned away in order to present its back side to us—a much smaller target.

 

   _“FIRE!”_

 

   Artemus and the crew yanked their firing nooses, which would ignite the powder for the first blast.

 

   The mighty _Admiral Rolot_ roared as the cannons bounced back all at once as their muzzles flashed a violent yellow-white: “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

 

   The smoke cleared. My ears rang. We looked.

 

   The scalawag’s stern was heavily damaged, its stern sheets on fire. It was still floating, but now was presenting too small a target to waste more cannonshot on.

 

   We cheered and yelled curses at them as they sailed as fast as they could away.

 

   The _Admiral Rolot_ was safe.

 

 

 

None of the “military” or “royals” or whatever you might call them actually were. Or, more precisely, they _were_ part of the Bavus-Naguty Navy, but the military that Navy was part of had long ago been seriously corrupted by wealthy native interests. _All_ of them, in other words, were mercenaries. That’s what we learned as we interviewed passengers. It kept coming up again and again.

 

   We had always known that Bavus-Naguty, as a whole, was a nation rife with corruption. We just didn’t realize it had gotten so bad.

 

   All but six of them were dead. The survivors were handcuffed and thrown into the brig, which the _Admiral Rolot_ actually had, and was located, ironically enough, right next to the big white bags of green sugar in the bowels of the ship. We stripped them to their underwear and put them three to a cage. Several Portuguese had been slain during the attempted piracy, which would very much interest the authorities in Porto once we landed there.

 

   Once we learned about those “military,” we decided (we meaning the captain and the rest of the Bandileros) to skip sailing into High Tanes altogether. It was clear that Bavus-Naguty’s officials could not be trusted, and a dozen of the _Revenge_ ’s finest were now in charge of one of their largest and most modern flagships. That wouldn’t go well with any government.

 

   How we came to be in charge of it all came down to simple gratitude, I suppose, and not just a little inexperience. In Bavus-Naguty’s chain of command, the navigator was third in line to the captaincy. The problem was, he was a first-year officer still learning the ropes and honest enough to admit it. Having the actual Dread Pirate Roberts on board would be intimidating to even the most seasoned officer; to this navigator, his continual expressions of jaw-dropping overwhelm were enough to clearly convey his feelings.

 

   “You saved us, Captain,” he said for the third time. “This ship is yours by rights.”

 

   “I will deliver the passengers safely to Porto,” Captain Montoya responded with a reassuring smile and a hand on the navigator’s shoulder. “But you will be responsible for getting them back to High Tanes. You can understand why we can’t make port there.”

 

   “Of course, of course,” said the navigator, whose name was Adona Mirt. “If you don’t mind, sir, would you mind sharing how you overcame the pirates?”

 

   “See to the passengers—especially the third-class passengers—and have the crew meet me on the bridge. Let everyone know the change of itinerary. I’ll let the crew know how to protect themselves against another pirate attack—or from their own government. It may be difficult to tell which is which judging from what happened today. The scalawags may be gone, but I assure you,” he added ominously, “they _will_ return, and they may come with actual Bavus-Naguty warships. You need to be ready. After that I will share how we vanquished the marauders.”

 

   “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Mirt with a nervous nod. “I will talk to the crew now and see to the passengers.”

 

 

 

So how did the captain and five of the Bandileros hiding with him overcome the pirates? Apparently, the credit for it went to Chevor Zov. While huddled in a dark corner behind empty crates with the rest of them, he noticed something odd with the hullwood. Being a master carpenter, he uncrouched and went to the wall and began tracing his finger around what was a nearly invisible seam.

 

   “Captain!” he whispered.

 

   Captain Montoya turned his head to look, as did the others.

 

   Chevor fingered a corner for a moment, and a light click sounded out. A moment later the wall pushed out a couple inches. Domingo was right there and pulled the hidden door open all the way.

 

   A hidden weapons stash!

 

   Such stashes were common on merchant ships sailing dangerous waters around the world, especially ones ferrying important politicians or expensive cargo. This one was brimming with muskets, rifles, and bayonets. All were clean and ready to go. As the pirates made their way to third class and the green sugar, the Bandileros were arming up and taking aim. It was by the sheerest, luckiest coincidence that the hidden door was where it was.

 

   What was even luckier were the Bandileros themselves—or, rather, I should say, our particular selection of those we selected _as_ Bandileros. Chevor Zov had been a decorated sniper in the Russian Army. Aledar Alemore had training in sniping as well. Angus Quaid used to win quick-draw contests in Perth, apparently, and Domingo’s father had seen to it that his son could hunt, and was quite stern in training him. As for Captain Montoya ...

 

   “He was just like Domingo’s father,” he said, clapping a hand on Domingo’s shoulder. “I had to learn to shoot and reload a weapon with speed and silence, or our dinner would slip away. He also didn’t trust the government, and made sure his boy was able to defend his family, and not just with the long blade.”

 

   “They had no idea what hit them,” declared Alemore. “We took half of them down before they even knew what was going on. They lost the head and went crazy, firing at everything and every shadow.”

 

   “Which isn’t good news,” said Fan, who had just returned.

 

   “How many?” asked Captain Montoya, his face furrowing with concern.

 

   “Five, and fifteen injured, two seriously,” reported Fan somberly.

 

   “Five ... third-class _passengers_?” asked Stacie, aghast. _“Dead?”_

 

   “One of them was a boy,” said Fan. “He was nine, according to his mother.”

 

   Our victory was suddenly muted by its bloody cost. None of us knew what to say. There really was nothing _to_ say.

 

   “Let’s figure out what kind of damage we’ve sustained,” said the captain quietly, “and let’s get the crew up to speed and help them get this big boat back on its way.” He gazed at Fan. “See to the injured.”

 

   Fan was as close to a physician as the _Rolot_ now had. He had extensive training in Chinese herbal medicine and was quite skilled with injuries. The _Rolot_ ’s physician was one of the crew the pirates had executed.

 

**~~*~~**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please drop by my blog: ShawnMicheldeMontaigne.blogspot.com for more fan fiction, original work, fractal art, and much more!


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